


ain't life a bore when you're a mess?

by Ushio



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Light Angst, Missing Scene, Pre-Relationship, a hell of a lot of projection, emotional sports gore, so much of it i just took the characters and RAN with them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:35:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24663190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ushio/pseuds/Ushio
Summary: “I just think it’s not impossible for something to be pretty and terrible at the same time. We’re skaters,” Mila says, rather dryly, “shouldn’t we know better? Anything can be beautiful if you sequin the shit out of it.”On the same afternoon, Sara makes a difficult call home and discovers a friend in one Mila Babicheva.
Relationships: Mila Babicheva/Sara Crispino
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	ain't life a bore when you're a mess?

**Author's Note:**

> hi!!! this was written for [Ana](https://twitter.com/agente_ana) on twitter, in exchange for a donation to [Black Lives Matter](https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/#international)! she requested some sara/mila while they were on barcelona for the grand prix final. some pining with a side dish of angst and hand holding and! well! i think i failed on the pining front but i tried my best to deliver everything else <3\. it's been years since i was last in this fandom and i don't remember a lot of details about the characters or the show, so please forgive any discrepancies with canon! as for sara and mila, well. i honestly projected _a lot on them_. there wasn't much to go there with, for starters! so. i made a lot of shit up. hope you'll enjoy it!
> 
> (title from 'aristocrats' by raleigh ritchie)

_I guess I've got calls to make and texts to ignore_

_Ain't life a bore when you're a mess? Anyway_

_I'm tongue-tied, brain fried_

_I've sacrificed my whole life_

_I don't think you realise but you are in my insides_

_My brain hurts and it ain't worth it_

_I'll keep hurting, I'll keep working_

* * *

She knows what Michele would say if he were here—the kind of arguments he would use and the way he could easily convince her with just a few, select words—which is precisely why she waits until he’s gone to make her call. Out of sight, out of mind. Convincing Emil to take him out to eat wasn’t difficult at all, thank God—as much as he flirts with her, they’re both painfully aware of who he’s really pining after. And without his help she wouldn’t get a single moment alone. Which is fine, usually. She loves his brother and she loves spending time with him. She just needs—a bit of space for this. Some room to breathe.

So Sara asked him to keep her brother distracted for a couple hours and he agreed to it without question—which is good because she would rather not explain to Anyone, Ever, why making a call has her so nervous. Or why she needs to be alone in order to make it. Emil complied easily and he wrangled Michele into going out with him, practically dragging him away from the hotel kicking and screaming; unrelenting, for beneath his cheerful and annoying façade hides an even more cheerful and annoying man who doesn’t take a no for an answer.

And now she’s alone and Michele is not here to stop her and that is why she calls home. It’s been a long time since she last did but it’s also been a long time since she made it into the GPF. The line rings, once. Twice. She pulls at the hem of her skirt, absentmindedly, fingers bunching up the fabric. She _needs_ to know. She needs—

“Yes?”

“Mom,” she gasps. She wasn’t _actually_ expecting her to pick up that fast. It usually takes much longer for her to answer and Sara feels as if the floor just disappeared beneath her feet. She staggers back until the back of her legs hit the bed and she sits down. She can barely hear her own thoughts with the way her blood keeps rushing through ears but she has—has to say something—

“What is it?” Her mother asks, impatient, and her tone feels like a snap at the back of her hand. She recoils, almost instinctively, and the words stumble out of her as if her mother had clawed them out.

“I—how are you? It’s been a while.” She hears herself speak as if she was out of her own body; as if she was nothing more than a spectator, sitting on the bleachers, gasping and bellowing with every ill-timed landing. _I’m doing everything wrong_ , she thinks. _I should have—shouldn’t have started like this, should have said—_

Sweat collects at the back of her neck and it pools around her temples.

Was it always this hard? Or this just the result of too much space and not enough therapy sessions?

“Yeah, I guess. Did you want anything?” Her mother speaks with her usual perfunctory tone. Blunt, direct, straight to the point. There’s nothing to cushion her arrow-headed question; it strikes home hard enough to make her flinch.

Did she want anything else than what she’s always wanted?

“Um, I don’t know if you saw but—Mickey and I made it into the Grand Prix Final. It’s...”

“I know what it is. So?”

Sara lowers her head as she hunches over, still clutching at the phone. She’s spent days going over and over this conversation in her head, thinking about the things she wanted to tell her and the way she would tell her and the way her mother would _maybe_ understand. She had a whole _speech_ set up in her head—a whole diatribe about missing her and wanting to make her proud and hoping she could see them _just once_ , hoping she could love them as they are just—

There are many things Sara wishes to tell her mother. Boxes and boxes and boxes of things that she always keeps a lid on, stored in the dusty corners of her head. Out of sight, out of mind. But when push comes to shove, she doesn’t have the strength to actually open them up. To actually draw the curtains and let the light in.

She stands at the doorstep of her mind and closes the door. Another day, perhaps.

“Nothing. I was just thinking you could maybe watch us. I know you’re very busy but...”

“Precisely. You know I don’t have time to wake up in the middle of the night to, what? Watch you fail?”

Sara takes in a sharp breath.

“It’s in Barcelona,” she says in a whisper. “The Grand Prix Final. It’s—there’s no time zone difference.”

“Hm. I don’t know; it’ll depend on my shift at the hospital. Was that all?”

She stares at her hand, still clutching at her skirt. Stares at her round, bitten nails; the messed-up cuticles; the white-tinted knuckles. The same hand that presses hard against the ice whenever she needs to get back up; hard enough to burn. She almost snorts. Michele was right, as always, and she should have listened to him. She should know better by now.

“Yes.”

Long after her mother hangs up, Sara remains still, sitting at the edge of her bed. The afternoon sun peeks through the blinds and draws long, tilted lines against the walls. Silence seems to cushion the room—when she hunches further, gripping at her own stomach, curling onto herself, tighter and smaller—she can almost feel its weigh brushing softly against her cheek.

* * *

When she leaves her room after spending _far_ too long staring at the wall and feeling sorry for herself, the last thing she expects to see is fellow competitor Mila Babicheva kicking at the wall next to her door in a fit. She’s staring at something in her phone as she kicks the wall over and over, cussing in Russian under her breath—and the moment Sara steps out of her room, she turns around to look at her mid kick, still baring her teeth like a growling dog. Sara takes a step back, startled, but Mila doesn’t seem to _see_ her; her gaze goes right through her, directed towards someone that is far, far from here. It takes her a moment to realize where she is and realize who Sara _is_ —and the transition from seething, boiling ire to the bland politeness of an acquaintance is rather terrifying. She freezes on the spot, all the rage bleeding off her face, and Sara holds her gaze feeling awkwardness set in. She feels like she should say something or maybe ask her if she’s okay—but wouldn’t that be overstepping the boundaries of their fairly limited relationship?

She should turn around and leave. Leave Mila to whatever she’s doing, leave the hotel and all her sadness behind, leave the country too, maybe even possibly leave the earth. She just wants to be _away_ —from everything and from herself.

Which is why she stays. Sara has always been excellent at denying herself the things she wants. It runs in the family.

“You do know we have the short program tomorrow, right?” Sara almost doesn’t recognize her own voice as she speaks. English doesn’t roll off her tongue with the same ease that Italian does; everything feels too abrupt and too indirect all at once, as if she could never find the exact word she needs. She’s been studying English since she was a child, has been part of the skating scene professionally since she was a teen, has travelled all over the globe—and sometimes still wonders if she’s making any sense at all.

With the way Mila’s staring at her, her fears might be founded for once.

“I know,” Mila says, putting down her foot. The wall still shows an imprint of her rage and Sara feels vaguely bad about the cleaning staff. “What is it to you?”

Sara flinches. She doesn’t even realize she’s done it until Mila reacts as well, opening her eyes wide and furrowing her brow in distress. Sara has never seen her emote anything other than boredom or quiet confidence and this—it changes her face completely. Almost more than the anger did. Guilt glints off the blue in her eyes, making them seem shinier and bigger, and when she blinks her eyelashes cast a gentle shadow over the curve of her cheeks. She scrunches her nose, probably without realizing, and bites her lower lip in a pout that’s honestly shaving years off Sara’s live.

She doesn’t have any right to look this _cute_. It’s honestly distressing.

Something must show on her face because Mila takes a step closer, still worrying her lip with her teeth.

“I’m sorry,” she says. Her voice is deep and low, pleasant as a cool river in the middle of summer. Sara basks in it for a second. “That was rude, I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

“It’s okay!” Sara says, raising her hands and waving them as if she was waving away the issue. “Honestly, I shouldn’t have interrupted your... Uh...”

Mila releases her lip as her mouth pulls up in an amused little smile.

“My tantrum?”

Sara feels herself flush with embarrassment. She quickly shakes her head _no_ as she waves her hands frantically.

“No! No, I didn’t—“

“Relax,” Mila says, shrugging; a fluid motion that rolls through her shoulders like a wave. Her concern and distress fade away as her face settles into her usual wryness. Unruffled and unimpassioned, but always with a faint undercurrent of humor to her every gesture—as if the world was nothing more than a big joke to her. “I’m just teasing.” Her smile turns sharp, one corner of her mouth raising to reveal the white of her canines. She crosses her arms, canting a hip, and her body draws a long, elegant line. Sara has to make a very, very concentrated effort not to let her eyes wander to her legging-clad legs.

She feels a flicker of annoyance at the ease with which Mila went from seething rage to lukewarm apathy. She seems absolutely composed, as if she hadn’t been boiling over five minutes ago—whilst Sara will probably lose her entire afternoon off mulling over that horrible call. She just feels things _too hard_ , for too long, lets herself be dragged under her emotions and then doesn’t have the strength to get back up. _Too sensitive_ , her mother used to say whenever she reached for her, crying _, too soft. The world’s gonna eat you alive_.

Sara turns her face away, uncomfortably aware that she’s an open book—that Mila can probably see the turmoil roiling beneath the surface, even if she doesn’t understand the cause. Humiliation pangs through her and she feels her flush expand down her throat.

“Right. Um. I’m glad you’re okay! So I’ll just—“

“Where are you going?”

“Huh?”

“You’re going out, right? Anywhere cool?” Mila takes a step forward as she talks and Sara takes one back, almost instinctively.

“Hadn’t thought of it yet. I just... wanted some air.”

“Mind if I join you?”

And she _should_ mind, she should feel fucking _annoyed_ that Mila is interrupting her precious alone time—time that will quickly end the moment her brother comes back to the hotel. She owes her nothing. They’re not rivals—for Mila is not her competition and she has never been; they’re both very aware of their differences in skill—and much less friends. They barely scrape the bottom of the term _acquaintance_ as it is. Skaters in arms might be the closest, most accurate term to define their relationship. Just athletes who cross paths every few months on certain competitions, who maintain a polite, friendly rapport out of necessity—just two women who follow similar roads towards the same objectives at very different speeds.

They have nothing else in common, as far as Sara is concerned, and there is no reason whatsoever for her to dig further. To scrape beneath the surface of Mila Babicheva; to glimpse the person beyond the blades. There is nothing, except her smile as she tilts her head; the pang of loneliness that runs through Sara like a pebble skipping over a lake; the thought that it has been a long time since she had a friend.

“Sure,” she says, attempting a smile. It doesn’t come out quite right, lopsided and taunt, a little grimace that makes her feel self-aware.

But when Mila smiles she’s nothing but kind.

“Lead the way, then.”

* * *

Truth be told, she really hadn’t been planning to go anywhere in particular, specially nowhere too far from the hotel but—she’s leading Mila, isn’t she? Who deserves to get a _real_ look of Barcelona beyond the touristy neighborhood their hotel’s trapped in. Somehow, Sara feels like she _owes_ her a cool place to go, like she’s going to disappoint her if she doesn’t deliver—even though it’s likely that Mila wouldn’t care at all. This kind of thing always happens to her: she makes things much, much bigger than they necessarily _are_ inside her head— convinces herself that she has to give it her all or everyone will be mad. She has to be perfect, always, at everything in order to keep peace. Perfect sister, perfect daughter, perfect friend, perfect skater; there’s no point to anything if she doesn’t try her best.

The issue with trying _too_ hard, though, is that easy-going people like Mila can always see right through her façade and it’s—embarrassing. To have all her efforts laid bare like that, to have them judged—

Ah. Her therapist would say she’s getting ahead of herself. Again.

“So, where are we going?” Mila asks breezily as she falls into step besides her. She stopped by her room just before they left to grab an enormous green parka that has the furriest, fluffiest collar Sara’s ever seen. It seems to swallow her whole and out of the corner of her eye she doesn’t even have a view of her face, just the fur. “You’ve been here before, right?”

“Yeah,” Sara says. She stares for a moment at the way her breath condenses in a little cloud. “When I was a kid, with my parents and my brother. We actually stayed at a camping zone in a little town way-out so we just visited Barcelona.”

“Hmm,” Mila says, noncommittally. “I’ve never been to Spain before. I’ve always wanted to... though I didn’t expect to come for a competition. It’s never the same, isn’t it? Visiting while skating. It’s like...” She stops for a moment as she searches for the right word. Sara stops as well, turning her whole body towards her, tilting her head until she gets a peak of her face. Mila’s flushed to the tips of her ears, her cheekbones dusted with pink. There’s a smattering of freckles over her nose, so pale she had never noticed them before, like melted snowflakes. Standing against the colorful backdrop of Christmas lights she looks—

Mila turns her gaze to her, then, and Sara looks away, feeling awkward and weird. She clears her throat and adjusts the collar of her sweater. She forgot to take a scarf with her and it’s late enough the chill’s getting to her.

“Like your head isn’t here. Not completely.” She says, sighing. Their footsteps take them through a busy street lined with shops, all of them adorned with fairy lights and other holiday paraphernalia. Sara looks at the displays, feeling a pang of nostalgia for the time when she actually celebrated Christmas—not the simple dinner she usually holds with Michele and some friends at their flat but an actual, real celebration. Like the ones she had when she was a kid. Before—well. Everything. “Sometimes... it doesn’t feel real.”

“What doesn’t?” Mila asks. Her voice blends in with the noises of the city around them—people’s voices, laughter, the rumble of cars one street over, the grainy, tinny music coming from a speaker somewhere. When Mila speaks she almost sounds like another part of the city; as unmovable as the cathedrals towering over them in the horizon, peeking in between the buildings.

“This. The time between competitions. Whenever I’m away from the rink it’s like the whole world just... blurs. I don’t know,” Sara says, feeling self-conscious. She lets out a forced laugh, tugging at her collar. “Sorry, I guess that was weird.”

“No. I get you.”

“You do?” Sara turns to look at her, face pulled into a surprised expression. Mila looks at her over the rim of her coat, her red nose shining like a button. Her eyes are smiling.

“Sure. It’s like, we live for the rink, no? We train for it, we sleep for it, eat for it. Everything we do, we do to be better. To reach higher. Hah. Jump higher,” her voice is casual, unassuming; as if she wasn’t describing the worst parts of the life they’ve chosen to lead. “I don’t know about you, but it doesn’t leave me too much time for anything else. I’m always so busy!” She laughs as she says so, a small, sincere chuckle that echoes through Sara’s bones. ”So. Whenever I have free time like this, time without anything to do it feels...” Mila shakes her head, as if pushing her thoughts away. “Feels like a dream. Or a nightmare.”

Sara feels her breath catch in her chest. Her head is swirling with thoughts and half-formed questions _—are you tired too? don’t you wanna give up? do you think this was the wrong choice? aren’t you scared—_ like a roiling storm cloud, a slow, massive gathering of all her fears and anxieties. She wants to rain on Mila; wants to soak her wet with her feelings until she’s not the only one left shivering in the cold—the only one who feels lost in the midst of her own life. But the moment she opens her mouth, nothing comes out. Mila’s looking at her, a small smile pulling at her cheeks, drawing the shape of a dimple on her left cheek; the yellow fairy lights of a clothes shop behind her silhouettes her hair in a burnished, copper colored halo, and for a moment—she’s been set alight. Like there’s a flame flickering within her, glinting through her eyes. The heavy fur of her coat cups her face like the hands of a lover would and Sara—

Oh. _Oh_.

She forgets what she was going to say and her mouth runs on her own.

“Those are two very different things. A dream or a nightmare—wouldn’t you know? Which one is it.” She cringes the moment she hears herself but Mila—

Mila smiles.

“You tell me.”

Sara lowers her head and clears her throat.

“Well,” she says, trying for lightness, “I think I’d be disingenuous to call this place a nightmare, no? I mean... look at it. It’s beautiful. We’re lucky to be here.”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Her tone is wry and Sara feels her ears burn with embarrassment. She keeps her gaze fixed to the ground, unable to face whatever expression Mila’s making beyond her furry frame. Waits a moment longer, hoping that she will save her from the absolute awkwardness of having to answer _that_ but no such luck, so—

“I guess both? I’m _trying_ to be positive here,” she says, vehemently. Mila chuckles besides her and Sara raises her head, annoyance flaring in her chest. Their meandering has brought them close to a metro station and she stops on her tracks, head swirling. She wanted to make this little impromptu outing good for Mila, wanted to show her the best parts of the city; wanted to do her best, as always. But so far they’ve just walked and talked about really abstract stuff that she hasn’t actually _ever_ discussed with anyone else.

It’s been a very strange day.

“I just think it’s not impossible for something to be pretty and terrible at the same time. We’re skaters,” Mila says, rather dryly, “shouldn’t we know better? Anything can be beautiful if you sequin the shit out of it.”

Sara blinks at her once, twice, and then she just _laughs_ —so abruptly she snorts through her nose, making an ugly wheezing sound. Her hand automatically flies up to her face, trying to cover it, but it bursts out of her like a dam breaking free; laughter spills between her fingers like water trickles after you cup it, and it is as warm as a sun-soaked river under the buttery, yellow light of midday. It’s not even _that_ funny but she can’t help to laugh again—a horrible, honking sound—before she reigns it in under a steel grip, slowly forcing her face to settle down.

When she looks at Mila, there’s something fond in her eyes. Much too fond for someone she’s talked to for a grand total of half an hour.

“Cute,” she says, smiling—big enough her gums show, peeking beneath her lips. It’s the dorkiest smile Sara has ever seen and her heart skips a beat. It takes her a moment to process her words and she flushes accordingly the moment she does; a bright red blush that burns along her cheeks. She takes a cold hand to her own face, trying to cool down, and pretends not to notice the way Mila’s eyes follow the movement of her arm; the way they hang onto her skin, fastening like a brooch—just as piercing, too.

“A-anyway.” Sara tilts her head toward the Metro station. “Where do you want go? So I know which line to pick.”

“Anywhere is fine,” Mila says, shrugging. “I told you. You lead.”

“Okay, but, like... do you want to go to a museum? A park? I mean, it’s a bit late but—“

“Sara.” Her voice’s as soft as the light surrounding them. Sara realizes, with a pang of some undefinable emotion, that it might just be the first time she’s called her by her name. Just like that. “I really don’t mind. I don’t care about touristy places or museums or must-see-advice from travel guides. I’ll go where you go. So. Where do you wanna go?”

Sara feels something like a lump stuck in her throat.

“I don’t want to—disappoint you. It’s your first time here and...”

“And? There’ll be other times. I don’t care.” She takes a step forward; her hand grazes Sara and she takes it back with a jolt. Mila tilts her head and says nothing.

“Just. Why do I have to be the one to pick?” And Sara feels so _childish_ saying so but the roiling fear at her gut, spreading thick like molasses within her chest—rings louder.

_What if I mess up?_

“ _Because_ you’re the sad one,” Mila says, shrugging again. She puts her hands in her pockets. “You get certain sad privileges. Like picking where to go before I freeze my toes off.”

“C’mon, you’re Russian you’re not freezing _anything_ off,” Sara snaps back, rolling her eyes. “And I wasn’t—“

“Wow, talk about stereotyping! Wasn’t expecting it from you, Sara,” she answers, deadpan.

“Shut up. What does sad privileges even mean? You were mad. Don’t you get mad privileges?”

“I do,” Mila smirks, raising her head with the royal bear of a queen. “They include other things.”

“Which things?”

“Things like kicking your ass if you don’t pick _now_.” She raises an eyebrow as she says so, her tone scathingly dry, but her eyes are kind and her mouth is curled in an amused little smile. She’s not _actually_ mad and Sara finds herself much more relieved than she would have expected at the prospect.

She’s also feeling vaguely humiliated at having been read so clearly by a near total stranger.

“I wasn’t...” Sara sighs and then shakes her head. “How did you know?”

She hadn’t cried. She rarely cries after talking with her parents, these days. She bled it all out a long time ago, the moment she set foot on the outside world.

“You just have one of those faces. You can see everything in them. Like now, for example.” Mila says, raising a hand to point a finger at her; her fingernails are painted a dark, pretty red that glows under the city lights. “I can just see that you already know where you want to go. So let’s just go. Yeah?”

Mila extends her hand like a peace offering, palm facing up and fingers slightly curled. Sara feels the sudden urge to refuse, and take a step back and go back to the hotel—to her brother, who’s probably back, and the silence and the fear and—the call. The urge roars within her, deafening for a single moment, and then it quiets down like a car rumbling down the road. It goes away. It disappears beneath a horizon of Christmas lights and meandering tourists, dark, tall buildings stretching unto the night. It flutters away and Sara feels the moment of surrender.

She takes a step forward and accepts her hand.

The subway ride is very quiet. The only thing that speaks is the warmth between their laced fingers and their pressed palms; all the words they haven’t said sewn between their knuckles, one promise at a time.

**Author's Note:**

> if you want to make a donation in exchange for a fic, please [look here](https://twitter.com/insomniafebril/status/1267182823124975616?s=20) at my rates. i know this is a difficult time for all of us but if you have any money to spare, please consider supporting black people in any way you can. we must stand together in order to make this world more of a just, charitable place ❤️; let's make an effort to uplift, help and provide a space for black voices, whether by donating, signing petitions, protesting or just listening and educating ourselves. you can go [here](https://twitter.com/justinigreene/status/1267212520814592000?s=20) if you want more information on how to be of better help.
> 
> and remember to take care of yourself since we're still in the middle of a pandemic and all. get tested if you can, keep proper social distancing when protesting, wash your hands, etc. 
> 
> sending you all much love and strength ❤️


End file.
